Page 20 of The Big Puck

“What do you normally do in the evenings?” she asks, reading my mind.

“Watch hockey clips mostly of my players and some of the games of our biggest rivals, namely the Boston Brawlers.” That ought to discourage her.

“Sounds like fun.” She walks past me and heads straight for the living room. Fuck. The problem is—one of many—there’s only one chair, and it’s not big enough for the two of us.

It should, but it doesn’t stop her. Shit.

She detours to the closet, pulls out a yoga mat, rolls it out near my chair, and sits cross-legged.

“This dress isn’t the best suited for sitting yoga style, is it?” She pushes her dress between her knees and gives me a saucy smile, and I’m not sure if it’s an invitation or a dare.

Staring at her straight back, the way her breasts thrust forward, and the way the dress drapes over her legs, hiding the tops of her thighs in shadow, I’m mesmerized. And maybe, I finally understand what dumbfounded means.

“You want to watch game tapes with me?” It’s perfectly clear that she does, and yet, I can’t wrap my head around it or around her sitting cross-legged on the floor. In a dress.

“I love analyzing games.” Real enthusiasm beams from every pore of her spectacular face, and those mirth-filled eyes know exactly how much she’s thrown me off balance. “By the way, I ordered another recliner to match yours. It should be delivered tomorrow.”

Holy mother of… I’m in a shitload of trouble.

Chapter 8

LAINEY

I shouldn’t be disappointed at his stubborn grumpiness, but I am. I was so hoping to establish a rapport, to lighten his mood and brighten his life.

He clicks the TV on grudgingly, and we’re treated to a replay of last season's Brawlers Stanley Cup winning game.

“I’m so excited we got Rafe Lemaire for our team.” Watching him score a goal in the first minute of the game, I pump my fist in the air. “That goal never fails to make me cheer.”

He coughs. I dart a look up at him. “Tell me it doesn’t excite you?”

“It’s…a good one.” He pauses and gives me one of those looks like he thinks I’m a mirage or some kind of zoo animal—and not necessarily one he likes. “How many times have you watched this game, and why?”

I hold in my laugh and keep my smile normal as I go back to watching the game. His question has to be rhetorical.

“Seriously,” he says.

I turn back to him, and he pauses the game. “My brother plays NHL hockey. Of course, I’m interested.” Why wouldn’t he get that?

“Okay, so you throw yourself into things with an abundance of enthusiasm.” He nods.

“I thought we established that? You know—with the cooking—”

He raises a hand. “I get it. It’s just… Never mind.”

“Tell me. What is it? Unusual?”

“Hard to take.”

I push to my feet and grab my yoga mat. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to your business. Next time, if you don’t want my company, just say so—”

“No. Don’t—” He rises from his chair, pushing a hand through that thick unruly hair, and I have the urge to help him mess it all up, to dig my fingers in and feel his wavy hair run through them. “Shit,” he mutters. “I’m not used to company. Stay if you want, but this is work.”

“Got it. I’ll keep my opinions to myself then.” I lower myself, unwilling to leave him alone as if he’s a sick man and needs watching and caring for, and I stifle the urge to make chicken soup. Looking him over as we both settle down again, I almost laugh at the notion that there’s a goddam blessed thing wrong with him. He’s ridiculously healthy and oh-so-beautiful.

Spencer Logan is one of those guys who packs power, and I don’t just mean in his impressive muscles. He exudes unexpended energy and has this aura of contained excitement. From his golden hazel eyes, intense and real, to his dark wavy hair and the way it curls at the nape of his neck, and mostly his solid, strong presence that communicates so much about him: his dependability, his pride, his sense of responsibility, his commitment, and all those old-fashioned things. He makes my ovaries work overtime.

I only hope his girlfriend, whoever she is, appreciates him. I wonder for a speck of time where she is, and when she’s going to show up, but of all the things I have going on in my life, I don’t let Spencer’s lucky-ass girlfriend take up more than a molecule of thought.